Later, as they ate supper in the hotel dining room, Dr. Steele told them about the origin of the city: “Whitehorse was born in the gold rush, when thousands of sourdoughs trekked over the mountains from Alaska and the Pacific ports to seek their fortunes. Whitehorse was sort of a jumping-off place. They ran the rapids to Lake Laberge in anything that would float—barges, rafts, scows—and on down the Yukon River to Dawson. A few of them struck bonanzas, but most of them found only poverty and disillusionment. There’s just no way to get rich quick.”
“I know you’re right, Dr. Steele,” Jerry remarked. “Though I was kind of hoping that Sandy and I could strike out north with Professor Crowell’s dog team and stake ourselves a claim. That French cook back at the road station even gave me a jar of that sourdough of his to get us started.”
Professor Crowell laughed. “Before you boys do anything like that, you had better see how you stand up to the rigors of the trail during the big race to Skagway.”
“When do we start?” Jerry asked.
“The day after tomorrow.”
Charley gulped down a small roll with one bite. “Tomorrow we give huskies plenty exercise. Not much to eat.”
Sandy frowned. “You’re going to starve them before the race? Won’t it weaken them?”
Charley grunted. “No starve. Huskies can go week without food. They little hungry, they run faster and fight harder.”
“What are you, Lou and Professor Crowell going to be doing the rest of this week?” Sandy asked his father as they left the table.
His father thought about it a minute before answering. “Well, tomorrow we thought we’d fly up to Fairbanks and visit the University of Alaska. The president’s an old friend of mine. We hope to inspect some of the fossils they’ve dug up lately. I understand they have some fine specimens on display.”